


You Are Sadie Falsten and This Is Your Fakey Bullshit Life

by queenofzan



Series: Fakey Bullshit [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Dubious Consent, F/M, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Non-Consensual Groping, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Sexual Assault, Sexual Harassment, Sibling Incest, Teacher-Student Relationship, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:58:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23114515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofzan/pseuds/queenofzan
Summary: You are Sadie Falsten and you thought your life sounded ridiculous and made-up before today. You didn't realize it could get more ridiculous and made-up sounding.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Series: Fakey Bullshit [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1661455
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	1. Morning

You're on the train to school. It's crowded this morning, more so than usual. You have to stand, pressing against strangers. Your legs are chilly and you wish you'd worn a longer skirt, even though you know it will be warm later. Now, though, you feel awkward and exposed and cold. Someone behind you is pressing against your butt, and you can't tell if it's an accident or on purpose. It was too crowded when you got on, so you lost sight of your brother, who would usually run interference on stuff like this.

And of course, your stupid, traitorous, hormonal teenage body reacts to just the idea of it. You hate how something like this can make you feel small and unimportant and also turn you on. Why can't your body listen to reason and not get turned on by creeps maybe grabbing your ass on public transit, or dudes you know are shitty, or girls you know are straight?

The train stops, and more people get on than off. You're pressed back into whatever's behind you by the people in front of you. You feel skin brush against the backs of your thighs. You try to shuffle forward, but there's nowhere to go. You're sure it's a hand now, and you're just as sure it's under your skirt now. Some stranger's hand is on your underwear, and your stomach is cold and your hands are shaking and your stupid vagina is on some other plane of existence where this is a good thing.

Fuck, now your stupid nipples are hard. There's only one more stop until yours, but it's the longest stretch between stops so you're probably stuck like this until then. Why did your stupid brother have to disappear? Your legs are trembling too, now, and you can tell your panties are getting wet. Why do men have to be such creeps? Why do you have to worry what will happen if you say something to whatever pervert is behind you?

Why can't your stupid body control its lust for like, a day? Or even, say, a train ride?

The hand is firmly between your legs, rubbing, before you reach your stop. When the doors open, you push your way out, a little rudely despite your "excuse me"s, and breathe a lot easier in the crisp morning air, no one around you but vaguely familiar faces.

You spot your brother heading toward the school gates, and you jog over to catch up with him. You punch him in the shoulder when you do, and he frowns until he realizes it's you.

"Where were you?" you demand.

"It was horrible this morning," he says. "I barely had room to breathe."

"Someone--" You lower your voice, ashamed and ashamed of being ashamed, "Someone was groping my ass like the whole way here."

"Shit," your brother says, going red-faced. "Sorry, I just--there wasn't room to follow you on."

"Yeah, whatever," you mutter, because you don't feel like having this discussion again. Things are weird enough with him right now, and you don't exactly want to dwell on that either.

First period is English. You can't concentrate on what Mr. Travis is saying. You try to, but you end up watching his mouth move instead. You stop trying to, and stare blankly at your empty notebook. You wrote and underlined "Candide" at the top of the page, but you haven't managed anything else. You have study hall after this, which might as well be a free period, so you consider camping out in the far third story bathroom to get yourself off. You certainly can't go through the rest of the day like this, even if none of your other teachers are as young and hot as Mr. Travis.

"...which is an example of what, Sadie?"

Your eyes snap up to Mr. Travis, who is kind of glaring at you. "What?" you say, and there are general titters of laughter. "Uh, sorry, sir," you say, flushing.

He frowns and looks at someone else, and you relax back into your seat. You're not worried about your grades, English is your best subject, and you can get Trudy's notes later to make up for whatever you missed today, but you don't like the way he frowned at you. That's the look teachers give you before a lecture about not wasting your potential or whatever. You thought that was over now that all the college application deadlines had passed, but Mr. Travis has always taken an interest in you. It's inconvenient, because it is so hard for you to concentrate on what he's saying if you're close enough to smell him.

The bell rings and you start to pack up, but Mr. Travis calls your name. You sigh, and nod in his direction. You pack more slowly, because he won't say anything until the room is empty anyway, since he doesn't have a second period class to teach.

You hear a noise, like the door being locked, and look up from your bag to see Mr. Travis crossing from the door back to his desk. You frown and your heart skips a beat at the same time. You tell yourself it doesn't mean anything, and you also tell yourself that your stupid hormone-driven fantasies have gotten out of control if you really think Mr. Travis would do something so unethical and sexy.

You sigh and approach his desk, having decided you are definitely going to skip study hall and go diddle yourself in a bathroom somewhere.

He's erasing the whiteboard, so you go around the side of his desk. You make yourself be polite and say, "Yes, sir?"

"You seem distracted lately, Sadie," he says.

"Yeah," you say. "Um, sorry?"

He puts down the eraser and turns around to face you. You lean back against the edge of his desk and cross your arms. You're a little worried he can see your nipples through your shirt, since you're wearing a soft cup bra today. Why couldn't you wear a t-shirt and jeans today?

"I'm a little concerned you're not taking your studies seriously," he says.

Screw you, you think, I ace all your tests and I already got an early acceptance letter. What's there to worry about? "Well," you say, making yourself look at his face instead of the whiteboard or his feet, "I'm sorry you feel that way, sir, but I promise I am."

"Uh huh," he says, doubtfully. Has he always stood so close to you, or are you reading into things because you're still so horny? God, he smells good. He always smells good. He has no right to smell so good and look so good and be a teacher. Why couldn't you have middle-aged, balding, married Dr. Wilcox for English? There's no way he smells so good. "I hate to say this, but I have heard rumors that lead me to believe otherwise. I just think..."

You have no idea what he thinks or how that sentence ends, because he is touching you. He has his hand on your hip and he is leaning into you and he's acting like he isn't, like this is some normal lecture about being distracted in class.

You look down at your hip, at his hand on your hip, and say, "Um, what are you doing?"

His hand twitches, but he doesn't remove it. "Ah, I was just--"

You look up at him, and he's blushing. "You dirty old man," you say, even though you know he's like twenty seven and the youngest teacher at the school. "You were going to try to take advantage of me!"

He does pull his hand back at that. "I didn't--"

You start laughing. "Oh my god," you say, "what the fuck even is today?" Guys your age hate it when you laugh at them, but you figure an older man can take it. Hell, just being a teacher must mean he's used to it. Besides, he just revoked his right to having you care about his feelings.

"I wasn't--I mean, it just kind of happened--"

"You locked the door, you planned this, don't act like you didn't," you say. He blanches. You roll your eyes and say, "Yes, I noticed. I thought--I didn't think you'd actually do it."

He frowns, but he doesn't look quite as scared. "You thought about it," he says, slowly.

"Of course I thought about it, I--" You cut yourself off. He doesn't really need to hear about your weird kinks even if you are going to try to fuck him. Which you are really going to do. Your heart is pounding and you don't know when that started exactly. You unfold your arms and stand up straight. "Okay, so," you say, face heating up, "I  _ was _ distracted in class, I've been distracted all day, because I am like, unreasonably horny. Every time I looked at you, I couldn't help thinking about--well, pretty much this."

"You know," he says, "I thought maybe the rumors were overblown."

You don't know which rumors he's talking about, but it's not like it isn't a well-known fact you're a slut. You have fooled around with almost all of your brother's friends, and most of your own friends, and a good chunk of your classmates you're not really close enough with to consider friends. And it is kind of your fault that one party last fall took a turn for the orgiastic.

"Well they're not," you say. "And I would actually really like to fuck you right now."

He closes his eyes and puts a hand to his forehead. "Heaven help me," he murmurs, and you take that as a yes. He crowds you against the desk and bends down to kiss you. You can feel he's already getting hard. You're really glad he locked the door, and that his desk isn't in view of the window like some teachers'.

He has one hand on your face and one on your breast, thumbing at your nipple. You whimper and squirm against him, because it's been more than an hour for you, and finally getting even a little action feels so very good.

He pulls away and whispers, "This is bad," against your skin before kissing your neck.

"I mean, I am eighteen," you manage to say. His other hand has found its way to your chest, and he squeezes both your breasts. A little, not too hard, like guys your age tend to.

"I'm still your teacher," he says, before kissing you again. Here, he is a little rough, and a little sloppy, and it's perfect. You whine and press against him. He smells so good, and his stubble rasps against your skin, and he's hard against you, and dammit, you were ready an hour ago.

He picks you up and puts you on his desk, and there's no way any rumor ever got that specific, so he couldn't know how much that works for you. It puts you at a better angle to spread your legs and grind against him, so you do. He makes a noise into your mouth and nips at you. You are going to have to wear these soaked panties for the rest of the day, it's going to be so awful and gross, but worth it, so worth it. One of his hands is under your shirt now, warm skin between the thin fabric of your bra and your top.

You pull away and peel your shirt off, and he takes the opportunity to unhook your bra, with no fumbling, and slide it down your shoulders. You shiver and bite your lip and he kisses your breasts, takes a nipple in his mouth and sucks it, and you have to be quiet because you are  _ in a classroom _ and you cannot get caught, but it's not in your nature to be quiet during sex, and you whimper and moan. He leaves your breasts to kiss you again, and your nipple is cold and tingly in his mouth's absence.

A hand finally, finally, nudges under your skirt and up your leg to your panties, and he pulls away from kissing you to say, "Jesus, you weren't kidding."

You blush even as you roll your eyes and say, "It's not like it was this bad before."

He "mm"s and returns to kissing you, one hand warm on your waist, and one hand slipping down the front of your underwear to your very wet pussy. His fingers slide firmly but smoothly down, over your clit, down to dip inside just a bit, then back up. You moan and wriggle, and he stops kissing you to lean back. He looks at you, sitting on his desk, topless, with your skirt hiked up and his hand in your panties, and says. "Fucking hell."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm a slut, we already talked about this," you breathe, and then gasp as he slips his fingers inside you. "Oh god," you say, and bite your lip to keep yourself quiet. It feels good to finally have something inside you, even if it's not enough, even if Mr. Travis has too-long nails. He uses his thumb to press against your clit, and you writhe against him. You fall forward, to rest your head on his shoulder as he fingers you, and press your face into his shirt. He smells different now, stronger, and you know it's because he's sweating, he's working up a sweat fucking you, this is what he smells like during sex.

"Don't you have any condoms?" you demand of his shirt collar.

"Yes," he says, and his breathing is heavy and labored, "but they're in a drawer on the other side."

You whine, and he grabs your hair and pulls you into a kiss while he keeps fucking you with his fingers. He's sloppier with his kisses now, and it's like eighty percent fucking your mouth with his tongue, and it is not at all making you less eager for a condom and his dick.

So you take some initiative and put your hands on his hips, on his waistband, and start undoing his trousers. He breaks away from the kiss when you grab his dick and groans, low and unexpectedly loud. You murmur, "You should get a condom," and he huffs and leaves you to dig through the bottom drawer of his desk. "Exactly how premeditated was this?" you ask as he tears a condom off the strip.

He snorts. "I always have condoms in my desk," he says. "I teach teenagers. I've got tampons, pads, painkillers--" He makes a face and stops talking. He looks like he's about to back off and tell you to get out, like that would in any way make up for coming this far. You lean back and reach for his tie, grab it, and pull him over by it, which puts an end to his pensive expression real fast. He kisses you again, and you wonder how many of the times you licked your lips and looked away from him distracted him too. Of course, maybe he's always this kissy and it's not something about you or the situation.

He pushes down his trousers and underwear, then has to brace himself against the desk when you touch him. His underwear is old and stained. He's circumcised and not terribly hairy, but you are done taking your time and savoring the moment, even if this is the kind of fakey bullshit that's never going to reoccur, and you snatch the condom out of his hand, tear open the wrapper, and roll it on before he can recover from his instability. He grunts, then moans, when you shove at the rolled-up rim to make sure it's as on as it's going to get.

You slide off the desk to shimmy out of your panties, and he bends down to kiss you again, one hand on your waist. Sometimes you claim to like kissing more than sex, but it's usually a lie, and it's a lie now. You impatiently squirm against his thigh and pull his hips closer.

He picks you up again to set you back on his desk. Of course, you think, a teacher would be a fast learner, and he leans into you as you wiggle yourself into a position that brings your genitals into contact. You feel the latex-covered head of his dick catch on your opening, and you wrap your legs as around him as you can, your bare skin against his. This might be torturous, but it's also a little decadent.

He pushes in, slowly, and usually you hate that, but his ragged breathing and the truly excessive foreplay of a morning you had means it works for you, sends electric hot tingles to your nipples, your fingertips, your belly, and apparently some of that ragged breathing is you, the sound you make when you're trying to be quiet.

You guess he's regained control of his legs, because one of his hands slides up from supporting him on the desk to your thigh, over your rumpled skirt, up your side, once more to your breast. You bite your lip to keep the noise you want to make in your throat, and he kisses you, sloppier than ever. If you get visible beard burn, your plausible list of other people it could be is too short for comfort. He pinches your nipple hard, which makes you moan into his mouth, and you can feel his dick twitch inside you. God, you wish you didn't know that, you're going to think about it every time someone who isn't him hurts you and you don't think you'll be able to talk him into this again. But Jesus, it's like the man is going down a fucking checklist of things you're into.

Both his hands are on your body now, the one still at your breast and the other clutching your hip, and your arms can't take much more of this, but luckily, his desk is under and behind you. You break away from his kiss and lean back. At this angle, you can do a lot more of the moving anyway, and his dick goes in deeper, and you have to put your hand over your mouth to keep from making noise.

"Fuck," he breathes, or whines, and he still has on his shirt and his tie, but you've certainly never seen the look on his face right now on him before, yet he still looks like a teacher to you, like your AP English teacher. He grabs your hips and levers you to a better angle, and you whimper around your fingers. You're glad your skirt is bunched up around your waist because he's hitting your g-spot now, repeatedly, and that can get wet when you come, which isn't something you paused to think about or prepare for or warn him of, but you're probably going to have bruises on your thighs from his fingers digging in the way they are now, so you figure it as even.

The first time you come, you muffle your whines with one hand and grab his wrist with the other. He either gets the message you intended your iron grip on him to convey, or he never had any intention of stopping. Or, possibly, he didn't even notice you were having what you'd usually call a screaming orgasm, because it's descriptive as well as appropriate, though that hardly seems likely.

He bends over the desk to kiss you again, but doesn't stop the movement of his hips, for which you are immensely grateful. You do have enough presence of mind to take the opportunity to get two solid handfuls of his ass, which you have wanted to do even before you found his smell and conflicted smile unfairly distracting. It's a great ass, and it is probably not just the endorphins when you think your life has been enriched by this moment. You can't wait to tell--shit, no one, you can't tell anyone who would appreciate your accomplishment. This is terrible.

Mr. Travis wedges a hand between your hips so there's pressure against your clit with every thrust, and it's a good thing his mouth is covering yours to muffle the surprised sound you make. He laughs against you, then drifts down to mouth at your neck and collarbone. You try to press up into him, but gravity continues to be stronger than your willpower.

You whine, "Mr. Travis, please."

"God," he says, "don't--" But he doesn't finish that thought, presumably because he realizes how impossibly hypocritical that would be, because you could feel his hand twitch and see him tense and hear his hissed intake of breath, and let's face it, you're half-naked on his desk and he locked the door; what would be the point of a risk like this if the risk wasn't the point?

You manage to come a second time just before he grabs your shoulder too tight and gasps into your neck, and you end up conscious enough of things that aren't your orgasm to enjoy the feeling of him pulsing inside you. You think sometimes it's shame you don't think you could manage either monogamy or motherhood, because you'd probably really enjoy the feeling of someone coming inside you without a condom.

You are sweaty and he is heavy, not to mention itchy, since his tie is wool and you are sweaty, but you don't try to wriggle out from under him or ask him to move. Now that you've had some orgasms to satiate your unbridled teenage lust, you're ready to savor your fucked-up fantasy's realization, and drink in the way your English teacher smells when he's all fucked out.

"Well," he murmurs into his desk, near your ear, "I am definitely going to hell."

You consider any number of responses, but you think probably he's more likely to call you on cheesy lines than Dan or Maria, or anyone else your age, so you just say, "I appreciate your sacrifice, anyway." He groans, though, so maybe that was a cheesy line too.

He pushes off you, and you extricate yourselves. You sit up and stretch as he carefully removes and ties off the condom. He frowns at the trash can. "Give it to me," you say, "I'll toss it in the bathroom." He hands it to you. You bundle it with your cold, wet underwear, wrap it in a tissue from his desk, and set it aside to get dressed. By the time you're finished, he's all dressed and rubbing hand sanitizer onto his desk. He sighs at a crumpled paper and sets it aside.

"So," he says, and you realize he is avoiding looking at you. "You, uh. You've kind of got me over a barrel here."

You roll your eyes. "Yeah, like I'm going to get my favorite teacher fired." You pull your hair out of its undoubtedly messed-up ponytail and run your fingers through it. "I mean, as long as you don't pull that creep shit again."

He winces. "Not...my finest moment," he says. "I promise I haven't before, and I won't again."

"Well then," you say. You pull your hair into another ponytail, hopefully neat enough to keep someone from knowing you just had sex. "We both say nothing, and..." You sigh. "I guess never do this again."

"That would be best," he says, to his spotless desk.

"Well, I hope you know I'm never going to be able to concentrate in your class again," you say, grabbing the tissue bundle of the condom and your panties, and putting it in your bag carefully.

"I'm not going to grade you any different," he says.

"Of course not," you say, smiling. "You should probably open a window, though."

He groans, and you are going to have a hell of a time being in class with him for the next two months. You unlock the door, but then stop. "Oh," you say, and turn back. "Um. Can I get a pass for--"

He sighs. "Yeah," he says, and you wait while he scribbles some lies onto a pass. You take it from him and leave without looking back.

You do not hurry to the far third floor bathroom, even though you feel like anyone you pass would somehow know you're not wearing anything under your skirt.

Once there, you bury the condom in the trash beneath some paper towels, and rinse your panties in the sink. You dry them with the hand dryer. While they're drying, you pee and clean yourself up. You fix your makeup. You wish you had deodorant in your bag. You don't even have a locker for gym anymore, so you can't try to sneak past Coach Z to get at it.

When your underwear is dry and you are as presentable as you can get, you take the back stairs down to the ground floor, to go to the library and finish up the period actually in study hall. Mrs. Takahashi doesn't even blink at you coming in three quarters through the period, just takes your pass and smiles at you.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to [somewhereinitalyinthemid80s](https://archiveofourown.org/users/somewhereinitalyinthemid80s) for commenting on this and encouraging me to fill in the holes in my draft and work on finishing it! Also for having the most valid take of all time. I'm working on it!

The rest of the day is uneventful, as if trying to make up for the morning. The only person who appears to notice your distraction is your brother, who frowns when he sees you in Physics, but is prevented from asking anything by Gloria sitting down next to you, with a story of some big argument in the cafeteria during second lunch.

But you are dying to tell someone, and your brother is the only person in the world you trust to keep a secret as well as you do, for--reasons that do not bear thinking about, even or maybe especially on a day like this. Anyway, he finds you immediately after school and you walk to the train station together.

"Okay, so," you say to him, "you know when I say this is a secret and you can't tell anyone, at all, you know what I mean."

He colors a little and huffs. "Of course," he says. "Are you okay?"

You laugh. The train pulls up, and he follows you into a corner by the doors that won't open until you're out of downtown. "Jesus, Sadie," he hisses, looking really worried now, "what happened?"

You lean in close, closer than you usually let yourself get to him. "I kind of had sex with Mr. Travis."

He starts to open his mouth, but you punch him before he can yelp. "Sorry," he mutters. "I just--a teacher? That's a new low."

"He started it," you mutter, even though you didn't mean to tell Ben that part. You cut him off, and go on, in an undertone, "Which is why you can't say anything! I don't want him to get fired."

"I bet you don't," he says, smirking, and you punch him again. He laughs, and you're both quiet a while. Ben is not exactly the right audience for this story, but he's the only person you can trust absolutely to keep a secret. He says, "Wait. Is that why the windows were open?"

You roll your eyes.

At the stop by the convention center, the train fills up. You're squashed against Ben, and he's squashed against the wall of the train. He's suddenly very busy looking anywhere but at you. "Sorry," you mutter, but he doesn't respond. Fair enough; you don't think he wants to risk discussing it either. It's easier to ignore, sometimes. It's been harder lately, especially once Mom and Dad left the two of you alone to go to Europe. It's easier to get carried away, knowing your parents won't find out.

The train brakes suddenly, and you stumble. Ben grabs you by the hips. Someone presses against your back, and you lean more against your brother, unconsciously. You start to apologize, but he loops an arm around you, blushing and looking away. He'd pull off casual so much better if he could keep from turning red every ten minutes. You'd be amazed he ever got anywhere with anyone if you hadn't seen it happen.

Something pushes against you from behind again, and this time you feel the hem of your skirt flutter. You mutter, "Ben."

"What?" he asks, glancing at you, then looking over your shoulder. He stares, then blushes, and then nods. You frown at him, and he grabs your wrists with both his hands and murmurs, "Sorry, Sade."

You're fighting your own flush at his firm grip on your arms when you feel a very definite grab at your ass. "You tit," you hiss, but you'd be lying if you said you weren't kind of impressed. You didn't think he had it in him. You did rather used to goad him, to no apparent effect.

He shrugs. "You know how it is with blackmail," he says. You frown again and he adds, "Don't look behind you, by the way. Please."

This is an audacious groper, but then, he has backup restraining you. Backup that should be yours. What the fuck is this day? Anyway he's basically kneading your ass, and dammit, you already washed these underwear once today.

You resist the urge to squirm. You are, after all, in a public place. Ben is staring at you, with the kind of intensity that is exactly the reason he usually avoids looking directly at your face. There goes years of plausible deniability. Your heart is pounding so loud it's a wonder you haven't drawn a crowd.

You bite your lip as the groper moves his fingers between your legs. Ben's hands tighten on your wrists. "Dammit, Ben," you mutter.

The hand presses against your clit. You resist the urge to spread your legs, because this isn't something you want, even if you can barely breathe with how turned on you are. At least pressed against your brother, there's no way for anyone to see your stupid hard nipples through your stupid shirt. You used to like this traitor of a shirt.

Your unknown assailant runs his finger along your cleft, and stops at your ass again. Through your poor, abused panties, he pushes at your anus. Then he slips his fingers into them and tugs, which wedges them into you. Your legs are trembling again.

"Oh," you mutter. "Blackmail. It was you this morning." It's a hell of a leap to this conclusion, but this week--well, you thought he seemed disappointed when you backed out of that ridiculous bet.

He blushes immediately and says, "Uh. Yeah."

"You piece of shit," you say, "I was  _ scared _ ."

He leans in toward you and your stomach flips over, even though you know he can't very well do anything here. He murmurs, just loud enough to hear over the noise of the crowd and the train, "What was I supposed to do, ask you?"

At least you're not the only hopeless pervert in this family. You can feel him getting hard, since you're pressed up against him, and that does make you feel a little better about how you're getting wet again. Mercilessly, you shift your stance, rubbing against him. He breathes in sharply. "I guess we'll have to talk about this when we're off the train," you murmur, and he sighs, like talking about it is worse than groping you on a train or holding you so someone else can grope you.

Your assailant squeezes your ass again, too hard, bare skin on bare skin, and you hope the noise covers your whimper. His hand slips under your bunched-up panties and rubs at the outside folds of your vulva. Your arms twitch against Ben's hold, and damn the both of you for talking to each other about sex. Not that you need the extra damning, probably. You hate how much this is working for you, and you hate how much Ben knew it was going to work for you. This is his second successful manipulation of you today, and you used to think he didn't have the stomach for it. Apparently he just didn't have the motivation.

Another stop, and yet more people get on. This is the last stop in downtown, and soon the doors behind Ben will open and the train will start to get less crowded. Behind you, he presses closer, so you can feel the warmth of his proximity on your back. This stop gets a lot of middle-schoolers, so it's a roar of voices in the car now, which is good, because as the train pulls away from the stop, he slides a finger inside you, and you can't wholly contain your moan.

"Jesus, Sade," Ben murmurs, like this isn't his fault, like you can't feel his dick getting hard through his pants, like he's never watched you get fucked before. Admittedly, not from this close, because--well, it would have been too hard for both of you to pretend that was okay. But he's been in some crowds, and at some parties, and it wasn't as weird having sex in front of your brother when he just happened to be one of many.

He looks over your shoulder, questioningly, then says, "Oh, Verdant. Two more." You have no idea how they're communicating, because you don't hear a question asked, and you know at least one of his hands is occupied. No, make that both his hands; his left comes up your side to where your breast is pushed against your brother's chest and pulls you back enough to grab. You're so glad you're in a corner and there's no chance of kids seeing this. Worries about kids being unwillingly exposed to stuff like this is the biggest reason you haven't actually had much public sex, even though it's probably in like your top five favorite fantasy scenarios.

You're very warm. Your face, especially, is very warm. Ben just keeps looking at you, and you hope you're better than that at keeping your feelings off your face; it's like he wants to get caught. Again. The guy behind you slides in another finger. He's really going now, fucking you with his hand, and it's only Ben's grasp on your wrists and presence supporting you that gives you the power to stay standing. You're still sensitive from fucking Mr. Travis earlier, but at this angle, on a moving train, trying to be discreet, he's just not reaching deep enough for you to come. You're chewing the hell out of your lip to stay quiet and still.

The train pulls up to the next stop and they both smoothly pivot in the corner, bringing you with them, sandwiching you tighter between them, to get out of the way of the doors. People stream past you, and he's still inside you, and you're going to lose your damn mind.

Finally, the doors close, and the train and his fingers start moving again. Ben is staring at your chewed-up mouth. The hand on your breast is squeezing too hard, and you rock your hips, just a little, just a bit, you can't help it. That nets you your first non-manual indicator of the person behind you: a gasp of warm breath on your neck. Ben squeezes your wrists and says, "Sadie," in a disapproving tone you didn't really know he was capable of. You're glad of that, because if you had, you might have been more willing to throw years of efforts at pretending you had a normal relationship down the drain sooner. You feel like you could murder someone, if it would get one of them to touch your clit.

Then, God, the train is pulling up to your stop, and the hands remove themselves from your body and tug your clothes back into place, and Ben lets go of one of your wrists and all but drags you off the train. It's a good half a block before he lets go of your other arm, and you're sad when he does, even if you know it would look weird and you're going to have to be even more careful about appearances now.

"Has the walk home always been so long?" he mutters.

"Cry me a river," you snap. "This is the second time today I've been stuck in wet underwear." He glances over at you, and he's worried.  _ Now _ he's worried. Those extra ten months didn't do him any favors on the common sense front, that's for sure. "Next time you pull a stunt like that," you say, "I'm going to smother you in your sleep. You have to talk to people, Ben."

"I couldn't exactly do that before," he says.

"Yeah, and you see how well that's worked out," you say. "If I were anyone else, I'd be calling the cops right now."

"If you were anyone else, I wouldn't be in this situation," he mutters. Which is true enough; if he wasn't your brother, you'd probably have fucked him years ago and your biggest problems would be his monogamy thing. He wouldn't be desperate enough to molest you on a train, or make stupid bets, or get caught doing one of those things and blackmailed into helping someone else molest you. Ugh, you wish you could be angrier right now. You should be angry. You should be fucking pissed, but mostly you're dying to get out of these uncomfortable panties and finally get your hands on him.

"Well, we are, so from now on, you're going to tell me about things like that beforehand," you say.

"Jesus," he says, and you don't have to look at him to tell he's blushing again. You have, after all, spent years pretending you weren't teasing him, so you're pretty good at it.

"One block left," you announce as you round the corner.

He sighs. "Okay, so tell me about--uh, Travis."

"Oh my god," you say, "it was amazing and I'm never going to get to do it again or tell anyone else so I have to tell you everything."

"Yeah," he says, because of course he knew that. Ugh, this is weird. It's weirder now that you've invoked it, talked about it sort of openly--more than you had since your parents walked in on you practicing kissing, anyway--and you can't imagine it's going to get less weird. You're not good at relationships, or at least regular ones, so you don't have a lot of experience knowing and loving someone and also euphemistically knowing and loving them. And it's different anyway, because--well, because he's your damn brother and you're not supposed to feel this way.

"Okay first of all," you say, "he's a fucking tease."

"Not surprised," Ben says.

"I know," you say. "He is a sloppy-ass kisser, and he wanted to do it all the time. Like, the whole time."

"Well how else could he keep you quiet?" he asks, and you bump your shoulder against his. He laughs.

Your house isn't far now, and it is simultaneously the farthest half a block has ever seemed. You could probably write a book in the time it takes you to go past seven houses.

"And he didn't get undressed at all," you say. "He had even his tie on the whole time."

"I guess he must watch the same porn you do," Ben says. This is almost normal, this exchange, except you're sure his grip on his backpack strap is not usually white-knuckled.

"It was kind of a rip-off, now that I think about it," you say. "I barely got a look at him."

You're in your own yard now, finally, god, so close to being safe behind walls and away from prying eyes. "Hey," he asks, "you got your keys handy?"

You fling out your arms. "Where would I keep them?" you ask. You have them, of course, they're just in your bag, buried under all your stuff.

He makes an annoyed noise and digs his keys out of his pocket. His house-key was cut a little off, and requires finesse to get the door open. You barely manage to keep from tapping your foot impatiently as he wrestles with it. He finally gets it, and shoves the door open.

You're right on his heels, so as soon as the door is shut behind you, he pushes you against it. You grin, and drop your bag, and grab two fistfuls of his shirt to pull him in for a kiss.

He's a better kisser now, but it has been like eight years, so hopefully you are too. You open your mouth to him. He grinds against you like it's his job, and that walk must have been uncomfortable if he's still this hard. You wrap one arm around his shoulders and slip the other one under his shirt. It's not like puberty was easy for anyone, but it was especially tortuous for you when Ben developed probably the softest-looking smattering of chest hair in the world. You had to start avoiding Finn's pool parties for a while.

He puts a hand on your ass, under your skirt, and you have to turn your head to break away from the kiss. Undaunted, he kisses your neck. "Ugh, just take those off," you say, and he immediately hooks his fingers under the hem of your panties and tugs them off, still sucking on your neck. With your panties down around your thighs, he wedges his hand between your legs. You cry out, and you're so glad you don't have to be quiet this time.

You tweak his nipple, and he bites your neck.

"God, Ben," you moan.

"Sadie," he says into your neck, his breath tickling your ear and your hair. "Fuck, I've wanted this for so long."

"I know," you say, "I know, god." You pull him in for another kiss. He slides two fingers inside you and you moan into his mouth. You squeeze him as close as you can, with one arm around his shoulders and one under his shirt, now clutching at his shoulder-blades. He bites your lip and you dig your nails into his back.

"More," you mumble against his lips, "please, more, fuck me, please."

"I can't believe," he breathes, "you're finally saying that to me. Fuck, Sadie." He uses his free hand to pull up your shirt. He tugs at your bra, until your breasts are half out and your nipples are exposed to the air, all the while still fucking you with the other hand. He grabs one of your breasts, rough, and digs his thumbnail into your nipple. "It killed me," he murmured, "hearing you say that to everyone else."

"I know," you say. He shoves another finger into you and you gasp. You aren't looking at him, you can't, but you know he's staring at you, watching every move you make. "It was supposed to," you murmur, and he makes a noise and slams his hand into you.

Your knees buckle. "Shit," you say, "I can't--"

He slides to the floor with you. You shove at his shirt and he helps you take it off, leaving it dangling from the arm with its fingers still in you. You laugh and pull off your own shirt, then drag him close to kiss again. Just this morning you were wondering why Mr. Travis seemed so fixated on kissing you, and now here you are, feeling like being away from Ben's mouth is an injustice. God, you missed this.

He redoubles his efforts fingering you and you break the kiss by moaning and dropping your head back, thunking it on the door. You hear him huff a laugh, and then he bends down to suck on one of your nipples. You maintain enough of your faculties to wedge one of your knees between his legs, and now he rubs his denim-clad erection on your leg.

You're panting, letting out little moans every time his fingers thrust into you. He's not even sucking on your nipple anymore, just resting his head on your chest, breathing heavily while he fucks you and rubs himself on your leg. You clutch at the carpet and gasp. Your entire brain goes white as you come, hard.

And it isn't like you aren't enjoying the way he hasn't stopped, the way he's pistoning his fingers into you, but you had plans for this--for a long time, actually, though they weren't exactly as concrete as the name "plan" implies until very recently. "Do you," you pant, "have a condom?"

He groans. "Sure, in my room."

You groan too. That seems unacceptably far. "I might have one in my bag," you say, although you don't remember. You usually do, though. You throw extras in there all the time, just like tampons.

Ben pulls his fingers out of you and sits up. You feel empty and sweaty and itchy. You do not feel like you regret anything that just happened, or want to stop. You flop onto your front in the direction of your bag, and drag it closer. You sit up to dig through it, and end up just dumping its contents onto the floor. When you glance at Ben, he's looking at you with this look on his face. You think you can identify it, but it's...strange, to have it directed at you in this context.

Yes, there in the pile of tampons and leftover pads, is a condom. A shitty free condom from the last time you went to the doctor, but a condom is a condom at this point. "Take off your pants, loser," you say, but he barely has them rolled down when you grab his dick.

"Sadie," he whines.

You stroke him lightly a couple of times. You have to make an effort to pull away, because not only do you love giving handjobs, this is Ben's dick in your hand, and he looks so rapturous. You shove his pants down and he scrambles out of them. You push him onto his back and straddle his legs while you roll the condom onto him.

His hands settle on your hips and tug you into place, hovering over his dick. You can feel the heat coming off it, and it's almost unbelievable that you've waited this long to fuck each other. You sink onto him, and a shiver goes up your spine as he slides into your pussy. His fingers dig into your hips through the bunched-up fabric of your skirt, and he squeezes his eyes closed.

"God," he breathes.

You clench around him. You honestly think you could never get tired of the feeling of being filled like this. You rock your hips, and Ben moans, and thrusts up into you. You brace yourself on his chest to ride him, but you barely have time to find a rhythm before Ben flips you both over and hoists your legs up over his forearms. At this angle, he brushes your G-spot with every thrust, and the way he's pounding into you is enough to make your eyes water. 

He manages to fuck you hard enough that you end up with your head bumping into the couch, which is halfway across the room from where you started, in front of the door. You might have carpet burn on your shoulders, though you don't feel it right now. The only thing you can even pay attention to is the way his dick moves inside you, and the way he looks as it does. You have never felt like this about anyone else. You're not sure you're even supposed to feel this way.

You tug him over and down to kiss you again, and he makes a needy little sound in your mouth. This position puts kind of too much strain on your thighs, but you're willing to suffer for what you love. Bent over you like this, his thrusts aren't going very deep, but his hips rock against your clit, and his tongue tickles as it slides against yours. You can feel yourself building to another orgasm, and the thought of coming with Ben's cock inside you hurries it along.

You bite Ben's lip. He digs his fingers into your hips as he moans.

Your orgasm--how many does that make today?--washes over you, slowly. You're barely aware of Ben panting into your neck, thrusting frantically as he comes.

Ben collapses on top of you, slick with sweat. Usually you'd push a partner this sweaty away until you both cooled down a little, but you don't want to let Ben pull away. At the moment, you can't believe you ever listened to your parents and let propriety and societal taboos come between you.

Ben's breath hitches, and he buries his face in your shoulder. You feel hot wetness beneath his face, and realize he's crying.

"I love you," you say.

"You shouldn't," Ben murmurs into your skin. You squeeze him. He laughs, though it does sound unfortunately close to a sob, and says, "I love you."

You hold him while he cries for a few minutes. You wonder if this is the first time he's cried over you, over this thing between you, but you don't ask. You're not sure you really want to know.

He rolls off you to wipe his eyes on the back of his hands. You sit up and stretch. "God, I need a shower," you say. You look over at him. "Want to join me?"

He blushes. "Jesus, Sade, how many times a day do you need to have sex?"

"This may surprise you," you say, "but you don't actually have to have sex when you shower with someone." You reach out and take his hand. "If I leave you alone, do you promise not to convince yourself this was a mistake?"

"I don't think it would take you very long to convince me otherwise," he said.

"Well, no," you say, because you are confident you could talk Ben into anything. You could probably do it without talking, even. You holding back seemes to have been the only thing keeping him from jumping you, and that wasn't even perfect. "But I don't want you to get all weird and guilty about it."

He swallows. "I think I'm past that," he says.

"I'll believe it when I see it," you say. You stand up and hold out your hand to him. He takes it and gets to his feet after you. You lean in and kiss him, chastely, like you could have but didn't for the past eight years. "Keep me company," you say.

"Fine," he says, but he looks pleased.

Ben sits on the closed toilet while you shower, and tells you about his day. Most of it was spent worrying, but you kind of figured that.

"Okay," you say, as you turn the water off, "so I get how you were blackmailed by train guy, and obviously I know why you copped a feel, but like, why today? It's been eight years."

He groans. "The bet," he says. "The stupid bet."

"Really?" you say, as you pull the shower curtain aside. He blushes when he looks at you, even though you literally just had sex. "I've been fucking with you for eight years and that's what got you?"

He shrugs and looks uncomfortable. "I mean, part of it was opportunity," he says. "I thought you'd never have to know."

"We live together," you say. You make grabby hands, and Ben passes you the towel from the counter. "You could have snuck into my room any night."

"Yeah, and you would have known it was me," he said. "I thought you were totally over it." Over him, he means.

You roll your eyes as you wring your hair out over the tub. "Yeah, I often tease people I'm over about going to school with a butt plug in," you say. "That's a totally normal and platonic thing to joke with your sibling about."

"Well I don't exactly have a well-calibrated judgement of what is and isn't normal to joke with your sibling about," Ben says, which is a good point. God knows you've been following other people's lead and doing research for long enough to know you have absolutely fucked up instincts for that.

You sigh. "It's going to be hard to pretend to be normal again in public," you say. You step out of the tub and onto the bathmat, which puts you directly in front of Ben.

"Yeah," he says. "At least we have plenty of practice?"

"I hated it," you say, realizing as you say it that it's true. You spent so long not thinking about it, but you really did hate it. "Fuck, we're going to have to keep doing that forever."

Ben sighs. "Yeah," he says. He puts his hands on your towel-clad waist and pulls you closer. Leaning over him puts your boobs right in his face, and he buries his face him them. Your clit throbs, as if you haven't done enough for it today. He takes a deep breath with his face between your boobs, then looks up at you, resting his chin on your ribcage somewhat uncomfortably. "At least we'll be able to stop when we're alone," he said.

"God, yes," you say. You remember something, and laugh. "Hey, you remember that first party we threw after Mom and Dad left?" He groans and puts his face back in your chest, which you take as a yes. One of your friends rifled through your porn collection and brought out some rather incriminating sibling incest porn you thought was hidden well enough that no one should have been able to find it, and left it out on the coffee table. Ben thought it was his, which led to an absolutely excruciating conversation where you both pretended this was in any way normal. You say, "At least we won't have to buy two copies of porn anymore." He huffs a laugh into the towel.

You step back from him and towel yourself dry. He watches you less lustfully than other people might, but that doesn't mean he isn't watching you. It's just so loving it's like there isn't room to see the lust.

You go to your room to put on clean clothes, and he trails after you and sits on the bed. As you pull clean underwear out of your dresser, he says doubtfully, "I guess it could be a fun secret now, instead of a terrible one."

"You know what would make it really fun?" you say. You wriggle to pull your panties up your still-damp legs. "If you actually did wear a plug all day."

He blushes, but since he's still naked, you can see his cock twitch. "Come on," he says.

"It would be sexy," you say. "No one would know but us, and then when we came home we could fuck like we were thinking about it all day. Because we would be."

"Sade, I'd be thinking about fucking you no matter what," he says, still blushing. "Besides, I don't even own a butt plug."

You say, "I figured you'd use one of mine. I mean, you've been stealing my dildos to jerk off anyway."

"I didn't realize you knew about that," he says, blushing harder. "I did always wash them. And use condoms."

"Well, good," you say. You knew that, because it's part of how you figured out he was borrowing them. "Look," you say, "what if I did it too? I mean you  _ did _ win the bet, I guess. But then you also assaulted me."

"I am sorry," he says.

You wave that off, because you don't want to argue with the results. You're also starting to think you don't want to spend too much time thinking about exactly how desperate and upset Ben was, to do something so out of character. Instead you say, "So we both do it. And then, I would like to stress this, we have amazing sex when we get home."

He thinks about it. His swelling cock tells you he likes the idea. You decide not to bother getting the rest of the way dressed, and go over to the bed, and kneel in front of him. "Sadie," he says.

"What?" you ask. "We'll have to go all day tomorrow pretending we don't want this." You lean in and kiss the inside of his thigh. His cock is now straining upwards.

"We have other things to do," he says, somewhat breathlessly.

"We also have lost time to make up for," you say. You run your hands up his legs and gently push them apart. His cock is so pretty, it's as if your ideal cock was modeled off his. You don't remember seeing him naked after puberty, much less erect, but it doesn't seem likely your tastes would just happen to align perfectly with the reality of his cock that you spent so long pretending not to want. You rub your cheek against it, and he groans. It takes an immense force of will to pull away and yank open the drawer of your bedside table to grab a condom. The horny, reckless, teenage part of your brain tries to tell you it doesn't matter that much, Ben's barely had sex with anyone, surely it won't hurt to suck him off without a condom. Luckily, you have enough experience ignoring that part of your brain that you don't even have to remind yourself that the second-worst thing that could happen to raise suspicions would be you and Ben getting the same STI at the same time.

You tear open a condom and slide it onto him. He gasps and says, "God, Sadie."

When you're done blowing him, you've soaked your new, clean panties. He pushes you down on the bed and rolls them down your legs, and eats you out until you're hoarse from panting and your entire pussy feels raw and oversensitive. He finally lays down next to you. You take his face in your hands and kiss him, ignoring the latexy taste of the cut-up condom he used as a dental dam.

"I love you," he says. He's not crying this time. He looks at you like you're in a movie and you've just saved his life. "I'll wear a butt plug to school if you want me to."

"You'd do anything I wanted you to," you say, meaning it as a joke, but it doesn't feel like a joke right now.

"I would," he says. His eyes are browner than yours, but your faces are otherwise so similar. If you cut your hair short and did his makeup, most people wouldn't be able to tell you apart. You know, if they couldn't see the different shapes of your bodies, your rounded chest and his slender hips. "But you're right," he goes on. "It does sound kind of fun."

You grin. "Right?" you say. "I always thought it would be really hot. Like you get the thrill of public sex without exposing other people to it."

"Let's do it," Ben says. "What the hell."

You roll over to face him and kiss his shoulder.


End file.
